Anyway, I'm glad to be blogging again and I'm delighted to see you're all as witty and entertaining as ever. I'll be back the Monday after next.
Have you striven for a promotion to management? We all have, at one time or another, imagined ourselves in charge of the office, shop, restaurant, or wherever we go to work. It's natural to look upward. When we were kids, we imagined ourselves as the boss behind the big oak desk, not the lowly worker bee. In college, we fantasized about climbing the corporate ladder to a prestigious management position. It happens for some. Congratulations, you're the manager! Is it every little thing you hoped for? Or, is it a daily 10-hour Mr. Toad's Wild Ride with a detour into Dante's 9 Circles of Hell?
I'll never take a job in management. The way I see it, management looks a lot better in the brochure. In real life, management sucks. Just the word “management” evokes dread. “Hi Steve. How are you doing?” “Well, I guess I'm managing.” Gosh, it sounds like Steve is ready to commit hari-kari. “So Betty, what are you and Herb going to do now?” “We'll manage somehow.”
The only thing I want to manage is a way to do less work while making more money. I can barely manage my own problems, let alone those of a restaurant or office. Hell, I'm often one of the problems that needs managing, what with my attitude problem and all! Promoted to management, I'd have to fire myself, post haste, on the grounds of poor work ethic and incompetence. Irony.
Basically, a management job is 10% higher pay for 110% more headaches. In economics, this is called diminishing returns. In psychology, this is called insanity.
Here's another bad thing about being the manager: you're the subject of the employees' ridicule. The minute you leave the room the employees take to mocking you. There's always one guy at the office who's a crackerjack impersonator. He's been practicing you in his bathroom mirror for a few weeks and he's got you to a tee. Oh, how they laugh at him doing you in the most absurd scenarios. And the ladies at the office make detailed mental notes on anything gross you've ever done. Particles of lunch lodged in your teeth? A stray booger at the last meeting. An accidental fart in the break room. Spontaneous boner tent-polling your slacks? Rest assured that the girls will disseminate all your bad habits and embarrassing foibles like bagels in the break room. Women are like that.
Think about management for a minute. Look at the big picture. Meditate for a moment on what they ask managers to do. Every manager's job description should read as follows:
To management candidate: I've got a hot little money machine going here, but it's a pain in the ass to run. It consumes all my free time and I can't get to the golf course with my ridiculously expensive clubs and brag to all my golfing buddies how well my business is doing. So, I'm keeping all the profits for myself -- and leaving you with all the headaches. This job typically requires 45-60 hours of your week, so my organization is pretty much your life. Multitasking a must. There are no limits on your duties. If it's a problem, it's your problem. Either fix it or make it work. They only time I want to hear from you is when it's time to deposit the money in the bank. Feel free to exploit employees as you wish. Just remember, their fuck-ups are your fuck-ups. Always be near your cell phone for when there's a problem.
Do any of you managers out there have anything to add? Please share.
Greetings, dear readers. It's been too long since we last read each other. I'm delighted to be back. Where have I been? I've been balls-deep in Call of Duty 4 – a modern warfare video game. I bought a PS3 back in April and I've been mastering COD4 ever since. Discovering more effective ways to blast holes in the enemy's torso has consumed all my free time. I'm a soldier now. I've been ridding the world of hostile terrorist sects so that you people can continue living your cushy lifestyles free from foreign threats. The least you could have done was send me a thank you on Veterans Day! Jeez. You're welcome for your freedom.
COD4 gamers have many things to consider: which gun to carry, what perks to select (more grenades, or faster running, for example) whether to charge the enemy or dig in and wait, camp on a rooftop or capture a battle flag, take aim or bust a hip shot. Where should I deliver the air strike? Where should I plant the explosives? Why is a 37 year-old man playing video games 5 hours per day? As you can imagine, COD4 is a science and an art. Strategy aside, one must develop cat-like reflexes and master the gunfight. COD4 battles are settled in milliseconds. Often the one who pulls the trigger first is the one who stays alive. In any case, you can't panic. Stray bullets don't get the job done.
I've paid my COD4 dues. I'm pretty good with an M60 and I'm downright deadly with an MP5 submachine gun. Give me my MP5 in Chinatown and I'll kill more men than Genghis Khan and the hantavirus combined. Yoh foochun cookie read, “You git shot in ass by LBB.” Tap, tap. You're dead, bitch. The point is, now that I'm a soldier and a highly trained killing machine, I can reallocate some time to blogging.
To kick things off, and to stay with the COD4 theme, let's shoot off some bullets:
I saw a bumper sticker that read, “Be an organ donor.” Lady, they way you're driving, I might get the chance to donate my organs very soon – you know, once you run me off the road! Here's an idea. How about I donate half of my brain to you so you can learn to fucking drive?
Senator Obama keeps talking about “change.” How appropriate. Change is the only thing we'll have left after he takes all the dollars out of our wallets.
I saw Sex and the City on opening night with three lovely ladies, including my wife. Later, at dinner, one of the ladies I was with complained that her husband looked at too much Internet pornography. I took this opportunity to remind her that an hour ago she was ogling Dante's schlong on the silver screen. She did everything but give it a standing ovation. Women and their double standards!
I use the automatic car wash. At 4 dollars, it's a great deal. Anyway, I saw a “help wanted” sign and had to wonder why. The car wash is automatic. The way I see it, they need three guys. The first guy takes your money. The second guy points at you and guides you into the automatic track thing. The third guy works the mop and pre-washes your bumper and windshield (what a thorough worker he is, by the way. Regular James Brown.) Hey buddy, you missed some fly shit. Anyway, I finally start the automatic car wash cycle. This is a great time to take a little nap. When I wake up, there are three guys signaling me to pull into a little detailing area. I'm thinking, my car's already clean. Get the fuck out of my way. I'm leaving. But they persist. So I park. A couple of them rub towels on my car. Gee, thank goodness you guys were here, otherwise I'd have to hope the wind dried those 4 drops of water. Anyway, now the car wash hoodlums want a tip. So I reached underneath my seat, pulled out a bottle of motor oil and handed it to the one kid and said, “Here, go give this to the robot who did all the fucking work.”
FM radio has gotten so bad that I was considering just listening to my tires roll across the asphalt. I scanned the stations. Bad, bad, worse. I finally found a song with a decent beat – until I realized it wasn't a song at all. I was plowing through a Mexican fruit stand at 65 mph. Perdon, Alejandro.
I wonder if after MacGyver was canceled, he opened his own handyman business.